Sven Surveys Columbia
Best Drink/ Pina Colada
Best Beach/ The last one.
» I think he means the playa de nudista, it was AWESOME.
Best Song Played Whilst We've been in Columbia/ YMCA
»I can't believe he said that.
Best Almuerzo/ Arroz con Mariscos
Most Missed Stolen Item/ Baders.
»thats British for "swim trunks"
Worst Fruit Juice/ Mora.
Best Tienda Snack/ Aguila.
»I would have to say based on observation that five of these puts him in a jolly good mood.
Erin's Columbian Survey
Club Columbia o Aguila Cerveza/ No beer, yech! Whiskey or ron!
»barely avoiding dehydration, Erin downed a couple of each. So at least he's tried them.
Best Drink/ Jugo de Lulo
»best reccommendation I have EVER received. This juice rocks.
Worst Fruit Juice/ Mango
»I strongly disagree.
Favorite Wildlife Seen/ Egret
Best Beach/ Playa de Nudista cerca a la piscina
»Yep. Modestly, we dropped trou and jumped ship.
Most Missed Stolen Item/ The Kite Runner, surf trunks second.
»Books in English are more coveted than the emeralds of Cartagena.
Favorite Almuerzo/ Mojarra con arroz y patacon
Most Drinks Purchased in an Evening/ #15-20, but not just for me!
Medellin Ron or the other one/ Otra.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Bus Sleeper Expert, Hammock Sleeper Amatuer.
After consulting a map, as I do every so often on this trip, I realized that La Paz is VERY far away from Quito. After busing Peru, I opted out of returning this way to my departure city in Ecuador and booked a flight to Cartagena, Columbia. Prior to leaving La Paz, I visited the cinema for the recently released Love in a Time of Cholera ( I wouldn´t recommend it, but the book is wonderful) and thought to myself that Columbia does indeed look nice.
Easter Weekend in Cartagena was fabulous. The walled in city is a step back in time, directly into a Marquez novel. Brightly colored buildings, huge bougainvillea covered balconies, music drifting down every alleyway and cigars lit like fireflies in the plazas. My traveling buddy, Sven joined me up to Columbia where we met up with a life long family friend, Erin. As stubborn and independent as I feel at times, it has been great to have two guys with me at all times as the evenings get a little rowdy and drug dealers don´t really listen to "no gracias, nada para mi..." Cocaine dealers and drug trafficking policia are EVERYWHERE. Almost as if they have a symbiotic relationship... it makes one wonder. Alas, the city had much to offer- beaches, scenery, cut- out shirts and spandex like I´ve never seen before even when recalling the 80´s, museums and fresh squeezed juices of all varieties. It was a great weekend of ron and cokes, puffing a couple of Cubans, and overall the longest siestas this trip. Erin and I took a couple of salsa classes and plan on trying them out at every opportunity.
Santa Marta- I am writing from a smaller beach city,. Santa Marta after returning from a stint in the Teyrona National Park. The national parks here have some similarities to the national forests in Northern California. Large expanses are not regulated whatsoever and therefore too dangerous for hiking due to drug agriculture. Erin and I considered doing a guided tour to the Lost City, but pretty much ran out of time. Instead we hiked along the beaches, slept in hammocks and avoided the donkey droppings the best we could. Sleeping comfortably in a hammock is certainly easier than finding zzzz´s in the semi cama, however its takes so experimenting. turns out you sleep perpendicular to the hanging hammock, a notion that I had not considered in my previous existence. and then keeping oneself inside of the mosquito net all the while is the yellow belt up. Its great though- suspended in a little white pod of net and canvas as the waves crash near by and air sits heavily around me.
Somewhere along this trip I realized, I may hate the jungle and its probably for the best that i did not make it into the Amazon this time around. Upon entering Teyrona the three of us were searched by the armed Colombian drug traffic cops which put me on edge. Shortly down the path into the park, I heard these horrible guttural, killing a lion growls from the trees above. Every instinct in my body told me not to move forward and Erin and Sven immediately move towards the noises. Monkeys. Of course. They were really neat to see- but honestly sounded terrible! The rest of walk donned blue butterflies, armies of ants fanning green leaf sails back to their mud mansions, palm trees bursting with coconuts, a dead snake or two and ruins from Pre- Colombian communities. After three hours of dusty trails and sweat pouring from my body in the humidity, a freshly juiced Lulo (persimmon like fruit) blended with ice cools my soul.
From Santa Marta we are headed to an eco lodge alongside a river. From there I think I will quit of the coastal heat and humidity and head towards Bogota. Bolero and Gold Museums await me.
Easter Weekend in Cartagena was fabulous. The walled in city is a step back in time, directly into a Marquez novel. Brightly colored buildings, huge bougainvillea covered balconies, music drifting down every alleyway and cigars lit like fireflies in the plazas. My traveling buddy, Sven joined me up to Columbia where we met up with a life long family friend, Erin. As stubborn and independent as I feel at times, it has been great to have two guys with me at all times as the evenings get a little rowdy and drug dealers don´t really listen to "no gracias, nada para mi..." Cocaine dealers and drug trafficking policia are EVERYWHERE. Almost as if they have a symbiotic relationship... it makes one wonder. Alas, the city had much to offer- beaches, scenery, cut- out shirts and spandex like I´ve never seen before even when recalling the 80´s, museums and fresh squeezed juices of all varieties. It was a great weekend of ron and cokes, puffing a couple of Cubans, and overall the longest siestas this trip. Erin and I took a couple of salsa classes and plan on trying them out at every opportunity.
Santa Marta- I am writing from a smaller beach city,. Santa Marta after returning from a stint in the Teyrona National Park. The national parks here have some similarities to the national forests in Northern California. Large expanses are not regulated whatsoever and therefore too dangerous for hiking due to drug agriculture. Erin and I considered doing a guided tour to the Lost City, but pretty much ran out of time. Instead we hiked along the beaches, slept in hammocks and avoided the donkey droppings the best we could. Sleeping comfortably in a hammock is certainly easier than finding zzzz´s in the semi cama, however its takes so experimenting. turns out you sleep perpendicular to the hanging hammock, a notion that I had not considered in my previous existence. and then keeping oneself inside of the mosquito net all the while is the yellow belt up. Its great though- suspended in a little white pod of net and canvas as the waves crash near by and air sits heavily around me.
Somewhere along this trip I realized, I may hate the jungle and its probably for the best that i did not make it into the Amazon this time around. Upon entering Teyrona the three of us were searched by the armed Colombian drug traffic cops which put me on edge. Shortly down the path into the park, I heard these horrible guttural, killing a lion growls from the trees above. Every instinct in my body told me not to move forward and Erin and Sven immediately move towards the noises. Monkeys. Of course. They were really neat to see- but honestly sounded terrible! The rest of walk donned blue butterflies, armies of ants fanning green leaf sails back to their mud mansions, palm trees bursting with coconuts, a dead snake or two and ruins from Pre- Colombian communities. After three hours of dusty trails and sweat pouring from my body in the humidity, a freshly juiced Lulo (persimmon like fruit) blended with ice cools my soul.
From Santa Marta we are headed to an eco lodge alongside a river. From there I think I will quit of the coastal heat and humidity and head towards Bogota. Bolero and Gold Museums await me.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Scrubbin with an "Ñ"
Toothbrush from heaven. Purchased in La Paz, Bolivia for five and one half bolivianos (roughly 60-70 cents). I seriously love this city.
The Birth of Creation and the Rocks of Salvador Dali.
Bolivia. Charged me $100 to cross your borders while the Germans and English got through scots free, but alas, those two weeks were well worth it.
Incan myth has it that the skies impregnated Lake Titicaca and birthed what was the start of mankind. This body of an ocean extended out before us for two hours as we crossed the Peruvian border into Bolivia, stopping at Copacabana, a lakeside town with scattered restaurants and simple accommodations. Adjacent to the town is a pilgrimage destination point, a hilltop adorned with mausoleum, ceremonial ovens and the occasional graffiti, more recent addition than the former. Alicia, Lizz, Sven and I made the trek to view a dropping sun amidst steel gray waters, steel gray skies, and clouds laced in thin rainbows. The following day we visited the Isla del Sol. The walk across the island prompted memories of Southern California with its ocean like views, wide open meadows and eucalyptus groves. Some Chilean Cabernet and a meal of freshly caught fish sent us to bed, happy and in good company.
The Salar de Uyuni is Bryce Canyon, Yellowstone, the Badlands, and Capital Reef rolled into one huge, unregulated expanse of land. Throw in some wild flamingos, vicuñas, ostriches and 6000 meter peaks and you´ve got my favorite playground in South America. I think I´ll have to upload some pictures and words seem to fail me with this place.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Bused Peru.
Because such a large portion of my trip through Peru entailed being in transit, I feel the need to dedicate this section to the large wheels that turn. From here foreword I will refer to auto buses, collectivos, motos, taxis, milk and cargo trucks, bike taxis and shared rides as the subject: BUS. After getting through Ecuador on 3-4 hour trips I expected nothing but a similar pace for the remainder of the journey... however, it turns out that Peru is MUCH larger than Ecuador. I guess those map scales do mean something, i.e. 20 hour bus trips.
The buses are decorated. Adorned with fringe, Jesus, Mary and the saints, velvet, tiny hammocks that haul rolls of toilet paper swinging over the dash, Nike and Fox stickers, Bart Simpson figurines, and the floors and seats are littered with chip wrappers, empañadas grease, beer bottles and chicken feathers. Incense attempts to mask the lingering smell of fried food, BO, urine, animals, and moldy upholstery. The ride often starts out with a Frosty the Snowman jingle (yeah. what?!) followed by the same reggaton album that I heard on the bus before my last connection. Out the un- operable windows, the countryside skirts by and La Gente toil the fields and thumb a ride when needed.
We´ve been traversing the Andes, to the coast and back into these mountains. Every hairpin turn is marked by a cross where people have passed- often over the edge or into oncoming traffic. When asked what side of the road people drive on here, I´d say neither. With pot holes, landslides, poor visibility, flat tires, cows, drunk or impatient drivers: any terrain that is flat is fair game. Remember Mario Go Cart?
Often times rumors of high jacking, theft, accidents and other horrors pass between travelers like a conversation about the weather. Unfortunately, on the trip from the coastal party town of Mancora to Trujillo, Michelle´s camera was stolen from under her sleeping feet. Fortunately, she had her memory card on her and nothing else was lost. Crossing the border from Ecuador to Peru on an overnight bus was a trip. We stopped on various occasions for 15 minutes at a time and were unable to leave the bus. Arriving at the border we departed the bus and walked, flanked by clouds of swarming mosquitoes (started taking Malarone about now), hovering bats (Deb, Ive had two rabid bat dreams, thx) and the dark sky to the dingy police station and then onto the customs counter to get our passports stamped. The bus waited on the other side, past the 1950s style wooden rifles and camo uniforms that adorned the Peruvian border patrol.
I´ve seen the Will Smith film, I Am Legend three times now. It is dubbed with Spanish voice over and then, if we are lucky and Alicia and Michelle bat their eyelashes enough, we get English subtitles. If this isn´t entertainment enough, the landscape outside is like a one sentence fortune describing what life maybe like out there amidst the burning piles of trash, the scattered agricultural patches, and in the crumbling mud brick shelters, every third one abandoned and roofless. The sky changes the most, often booming with puffy white clouds and beaming with light. The herds of llamas, sheep, donkeys, mules and cows grace the horizon line with a traditionally dressed shepherd(ess) following not to far behind. I find myself asking where these people came from, or where they are going ... there are kilometers and kilometers of nothingness.
My greatest amusement and annoyance are the bus visitors. They come onto the bus at any arbitrary stop, often dressed in suits, jumpsuits of various colors, or aprons to sell food, drinks, herbs, creams, spectacles, omens or charity. These vendors are often prepared orators, promising revitalized youth, a better sex life, Heaven, and super organs for the rest of your promised infinite life. About one half to three fourths of the passengers buy. When I heard of a stomach cure (that happens to cure warts and moles as well), I almost bought two.
I have very awake dreams of writing a book, perhaps after this trip, of successful sleeping positions in the semi-cama (partial bed, reclines back to 45 degrees). I haven´t found a fool proof one, as there are many variables, however I have contrived a few that will offer a lucid dream or two, but not to be held for more than an hour and a half. My five stages of REM, I miss you.
The buses are decorated. Adorned with fringe, Jesus, Mary and the saints, velvet, tiny hammocks that haul rolls of toilet paper swinging over the dash, Nike and Fox stickers, Bart Simpson figurines, and the floors and seats are littered with chip wrappers, empañadas grease, beer bottles and chicken feathers. Incense attempts to mask the lingering smell of fried food, BO, urine, animals, and moldy upholstery. The ride often starts out with a Frosty the Snowman jingle (yeah. what?!) followed by the same reggaton album that I heard on the bus before my last connection. Out the un- operable windows, the countryside skirts by and La Gente toil the fields and thumb a ride when needed.
We´ve been traversing the Andes, to the coast and back into these mountains. Every hairpin turn is marked by a cross where people have passed- often over the edge or into oncoming traffic. When asked what side of the road people drive on here, I´d say neither. With pot holes, landslides, poor visibility, flat tires, cows, drunk or impatient drivers: any terrain that is flat is fair game. Remember Mario Go Cart?
Often times rumors of high jacking, theft, accidents and other horrors pass between travelers like a conversation about the weather. Unfortunately, on the trip from the coastal party town of Mancora to Trujillo, Michelle´s camera was stolen from under her sleeping feet. Fortunately, she had her memory card on her and nothing else was lost. Crossing the border from Ecuador to Peru on an overnight bus was a trip. We stopped on various occasions for 15 minutes at a time and were unable to leave the bus. Arriving at the border we departed the bus and walked, flanked by clouds of swarming mosquitoes (started taking Malarone about now), hovering bats (Deb, Ive had two rabid bat dreams, thx) and the dark sky to the dingy police station and then onto the customs counter to get our passports stamped. The bus waited on the other side, past the 1950s style wooden rifles and camo uniforms that adorned the Peruvian border patrol.
I´ve seen the Will Smith film, I Am Legend three times now. It is dubbed with Spanish voice over and then, if we are lucky and Alicia and Michelle bat their eyelashes enough, we get English subtitles. If this isn´t entertainment enough, the landscape outside is like a one sentence fortune describing what life maybe like out there amidst the burning piles of trash, the scattered agricultural patches, and in the crumbling mud brick shelters, every third one abandoned and roofless. The sky changes the most, often booming with puffy white clouds and beaming with light. The herds of llamas, sheep, donkeys, mules and cows grace the horizon line with a traditionally dressed shepherd(ess) following not to far behind. I find myself asking where these people came from, or where they are going ... there are kilometers and kilometers of nothingness.
My greatest amusement and annoyance are the bus visitors. They come onto the bus at any arbitrary stop, often dressed in suits, jumpsuits of various colors, or aprons to sell food, drinks, herbs, creams, spectacles, omens or charity. These vendors are often prepared orators, promising revitalized youth, a better sex life, Heaven, and super organs for the rest of your promised infinite life. About one half to three fourths of the passengers buy. When I heard of a stomach cure (that happens to cure warts and moles as well), I almost bought two.
I have very awake dreams of writing a book, perhaps after this trip, of successful sleeping positions in the semi-cama (partial bed, reclines back to 45 degrees). I haven´t found a fool proof one, as there are many variables, however I have contrived a few that will offer a lucid dream or two, but not to be held for more than an hour and a half. My five stages of REM, I miss you.
Monday, February 25, 2008
The last of Ecuador.
So, I'm way behind here. I have enough problems keeping track of time on a day to day basis, so I'm sure you can sympathize with the overwhelming task of "chronological order". In realidad, I am in Peru: recovering (hopefully for real this time) from six weeks of mal functioning organs, experienced a country wide strike (here's to hoping Machu Picchu is open), got off of Malaria pills (maybe until Bolivia), and am now acclimating to altitudes of 4000+ meters, again. But I had to get from Cuenca, Ecuador to here, so I regress to Vilacabamba, Ecuador....
Vilcabamba, or the Sacred Valley, is known for its peeps living well into their hundreds. Some man in Baños tried to dismantle this "myth" by telling me that, historically, when someone inherits land, that person takes on the name that is tied to the deed. So, three generations of land owners, literally, appears to be one person who lived like 120 years or something. Following this conversation, the man handed me a business card entitled, "Mariposa Man" and then pointed to his hatchback finger painted with butterflies, like the gesture and the car validated his identity. I've been really open to meeting fellow travelers, but this guy seemed lost. Upon arriving at Vilcabamba, I believe that people live well into their hundreds here: open skies, lush valleys, wild horses and views to take your breath away. Yep. Pretty radtastic:
Following this amazing ridge line trek, Michelle, Lizz and myself got lost, as we tend to always do, and ventured into three miles of overgrown river beds- streaming with water, ransacked with steaming cow pies and thicketed in spider webs. Mis amigas cleverly named me ¨Dora¨as in Dora the Explorer after I climbed into the air conditioning unit in our hostal room in Baños. Apparently, besides just being a curious soul, Dora gets assigned to machete through blankets of enormous spider food traps. Which, I am proud to say, I did. Another encounter with wildlife on this trip has been the cows. I am completely scared of them. Especially when they travel in packs of 20+ and have horns. 4-H did very little to ease this fear. Por ejemplo, on the easiest hike offered in Vilacabamba, we encountered cows, had to take like ten detours to get around them and wound up sweating and exhausted after five hours of up and down through terraced country side. Geez, these things crap everywhere, pollute the water ten fold, make it impossible for me to order the Ecuadorian ceña cause its usually beef.... friggin cows.
So, in Vilcabamba, we met up with German, used to be rock star, Sven. He endured getting lost, avoiding cows, and bowel movement conversations for a whole day and plans on meeting up with us later...in Peru. Here we come Peru!
Vilcabamba, or the Sacred Valley, is known for its peeps living well into their hundreds. Some man in Baños tried to dismantle this "myth" by telling me that, historically, when someone inherits land, that person takes on the name that is tied to the deed. So, three generations of land owners, literally, appears to be one person who lived like 120 years or something. Following this conversation, the man handed me a business card entitled, "Mariposa Man" and then pointed to his hatchback finger painted with butterflies, like the gesture and the car validated his identity. I've been really open to meeting fellow travelers, but this guy seemed lost. Upon arriving at Vilcabamba, I believe that people live well into their hundreds here: open skies, lush valleys, wild horses and views to take your breath away. Yep. Pretty radtastic:
Following this amazing ridge line trek, Michelle, Lizz and myself got lost, as we tend to always do, and ventured into three miles of overgrown river beds- streaming with water, ransacked with steaming cow pies and thicketed in spider webs. Mis amigas cleverly named me ¨Dora¨as in Dora the Explorer after I climbed into the air conditioning unit in our hostal room in Baños. Apparently, besides just being a curious soul, Dora gets assigned to machete through blankets of enormous spider food traps. Which, I am proud to say, I did. Another encounter with wildlife on this trip has been the cows. I am completely scared of them. Especially when they travel in packs of 20+ and have horns. 4-H did very little to ease this fear. Por ejemplo, on the easiest hike offered in Vilacabamba, we encountered cows, had to take like ten detours to get around them and wound up sweating and exhausted after five hours of up and down through terraced country side. Geez, these things crap everywhere, pollute the water ten fold, make it impossible for me to order the Ecuadorian ceña cause its usually beef.... friggin cows.
So, in Vilcabamba, we met up with German, used to be rock star, Sven. He endured getting lost, avoiding cows, and bowel movement conversations for a whole day and plans on meeting up with us later...in Peru. Here we come Peru!
Sunday, February 10, 2008
We look just like the ¨Gente¨
Three days of water bombings, dancing, bars and an erupting volcano chased us out of Banos to the colonial city of Cuenca: cobblestoned, steepled, and quiet. Real quiet. Ariving at 2am the streets were bare, the clouds rolled in and we found ourselves in a deserted hostal with high ceilings, queen sized beds, old creaky floors and neon green walls. Appartanly, Carnival scared everyone off here as well.
Cuenca is reminsecent of a marble shop. Blues, pinks, yellows, light greens and tan blanket the city in the most well lit scene of a Spanish or Italian film. Large domed cathedrals stand in viewing distance of the next and the streets are clean. Outside of the city limits, people litter here like I have never seen. I had to restrain myself from yelling a grown man for finishing off his papas fritas mid- bus ride only to shove the styrofoam bowl and fork out the window. It´s a relief to stumble upon a landscape that isn´t its own landfill as well.
We found the offical Panama hat museum just five blocks from our accomadations, Barranco. Get this straight: Panama hat fibers are grown outside of Montecristo ECUADOR, boiled down, dyed, and hand woven by the villagers. Then taken to the local hat shop they are pressed steamed preserved and finished with a band and/or some plumage. They were tagged with the name ¨Panama Hat¨ because they were exported in large quantities to workers building the Panama canal. The superfino sombrero takes four to five monthes to weave together with fibers so thin and taut that the hat can hold water. Of course we had to get our own (of lesser quality) to sport around town. With our straw fedora like accesories, no one can even tell that we are Gringas! I swear, we look just like the gente. In addition to the interesting tour of the factory and the historical significance of the hat, our tour guide suggested that we stick around and check out his
addition to the shop. He lead us down a stair case presenting us with a cafe boasting numerous bags of Ecuadorian coffee. Dark roasts, light roasts, nutty, chocolaty etc. So, this place is already my drem come true AND THEN he asks if we would like pen, paper and crayons to do a drawing for the wall. He tries to get all visiotrs from around the world to sport a little sketch to be wheat glued to one of the walls. My jaw dropped and Michelle, Lizz and I ordered cafes and spent the next three hours constructing an image of our tour guide, Efrain and ourselves flipping our new somberos onto our heads. So hot. We presented the drawing to him, took about 20 photos, exchanged emails and said goodbye. As promised, if we return to Cuenca and the hat shop, our drawing will be framed rather than wheat glued to the wall.. awwww yeah.
Cuenca is reminsecent of a marble shop. Blues, pinks, yellows, light greens and tan blanket the city in the most well lit scene of a Spanish or Italian film. Large domed cathedrals stand in viewing distance of the next and the streets are clean. Outside of the city limits, people litter here like I have never seen. I had to restrain myself from yelling a grown man for finishing off his papas fritas mid- bus ride only to shove the styrofoam bowl and fork out the window. It´s a relief to stumble upon a landscape that isn´t its own landfill as well.
We found the offical Panama hat museum just five blocks from our accomadations, Barranco. Get this straight: Panama hat fibers are grown outside of Montecristo ECUADOR, boiled down, dyed, and hand woven by the villagers. Then taken to the local hat shop they are pressed steamed preserved and finished with a band and/or some plumage. They were tagged with the name ¨Panama Hat¨ because they were exported in large quantities to workers building the Panama canal. The superfino sombrero takes four to five monthes to weave together with fibers so thin and taut that the hat can hold water. Of course we had to get our own (of lesser quality) to sport around town. With our straw fedora like accesories, no one can even tell that we are Gringas! I swear, we look just like the gente. In addition to the interesting tour of the factory and the historical significance of the hat, our tour guide suggested that we stick around and check out his
addition to the shop. He lead us down a stair case presenting us with a cafe boasting numerous bags of Ecuadorian coffee. Dark roasts, light roasts, nutty, chocolaty etc. So, this place is already my drem come true AND THEN he asks if we would like pen, paper and crayons to do a drawing for the wall. He tries to get all visiotrs from around the world to sport a little sketch to be wheat glued to one of the walls. My jaw dropped and Michelle, Lizz and I ordered cafes and spent the next three hours constructing an image of our tour guide, Efrain and ourselves flipping our new somberos onto our heads. So hot. We presented the drawing to him, took about 20 photos, exchanged emails and said goodbye. As promised, if we return to Cuenca and the hat shop, our drawing will be framed rather than wheat glued to the wall.. awwww yeah.
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